


Identity

by CharismaticEnticer



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Black Blood, Blood, Bugs & Insects, Calling Out Christian Grey, Creepy, Creepy Fluff, Dark Month, Dark Month 2013, Declarations Of Love, Dissociation, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, POV First Person, Past Tense, Present Tense, Radio, Social Anxiety, Socially-Anxious!Carlos, Spoilers, The Weather (Welcome to Night Vale), Throat Horror, podcast style, shout out to ao3feed-wtnv and ao3feed-welcometonightvale, was written BEFORE Yellow Helicopters, writing this was so much fun, you guys keep doing what you're doing!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some citizens are still recovering from their bout of Dissociation. Plus, the medical meaning of twitching palms, an update on the station pets, and the rumors about the next Mayor rage on.</p><p>(Written for Dark Month 2013, run by conigliomannaro; originally released on karaita.tumblr.com earlier today.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've really been part of a fic challenge for quite a while. But I wanted to scratch a Night-Vale-fic itch, having gotten into the show somewhere around the beginning of August, and what better way to do so than to take part in Dark Month 2013? It was super fun trying to capture the essence and structure and language of the show, but damn if I didn't feel ballsy at times, especially when trying to write an Erika.
> 
> Speaking of, this hypothetical-isode is set on Thursday 5th September 2013 in my mind, given what we now know about the recent circumstances of the angels. I hope this allows it to make sense with the known timeline.
> 
> Thank you, off-site girlfriend, for helping me with this! And everyone else, please don't be put off by the obscurity of my other ficced fandom!
> 
> Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Commonplace Books, and is presumably © Joseph Fink.
> 
> **January 2014 Notification: The segment about the Man in the Tan Jacket has been jossed as of The Woman from Italy. Conversely, the idea of dissociation and something otherly possessing Night Vale citizens has been thoroughly and terrifyingly _confirmed_ as of The Woman from Italy.**

When you’re up against the wall, the wall pushes back. The wall wants you  **off**. The wall  **demands respect**. Welcome… to Night Vale.

♪♪♪

Bad news today for resident flying dinosaur expert Joel Eisenberg, who had to cut short his ongoing relief at finally recovering from those pesky throat spiders. We all assumed yesterday from his improved ability to talk without arachnids pouring from his mouth in waves that he had finally shaken off his ailment of well over a year. But his partner called in this morning to report that, upon taking his first bite of imaginary corn that wasn’t through a tube, the corn wouldn’t go down, dissolving before he could swallow it.

This is because, in fact, the throat spiders have merely regressed into being a hoard of throat spider  _eggs_. While arguably that’s not quite as bad, if a dedicated surgeon can’t be found to remove them and stash them in the usual pit out on the edge of town – which, considering my next bulletin, may be the case – then there’s every chance that a relapse could occur, and the larval and adult forms could resurface. When asked for a comment on this, his partner only let out a low, soft sob, then presumably fizzled out with the sound of popping corn.

Obviously, everyone here at Night Vale Community Radio hopes that Joel manages to extract the things for good before they worsen. Relapses can often be harder than the first strain; my Lyme disease has had enough of them to know.

⁂

On a similar note: Night Vale seems to be continuing its recovery from Tuesday’s Bi-Annual Dissociation, albeit gradually, and in patches. We can all agree that this year’s has been particularly rough on us, but it’s good to see some progress at least.

For the uninitiated, a bout of Dissociation will typically last for around twelve hours on average. During the time of most severe infestation, the afflicted will flash in and out of consciousness and memory, into being aware, then not, then in-between. They will also, from an outsider’s perspective, appear to be flickery and glitchy, as though whole frames of their movement cycles have been snipped out with scissors and replaced by brown noise.  
Fortunately, for the vast majority, these things pass quickly, and they should be fully returned to themselves once it’s been flushed out. For the unlucky few, however, it lingers, and they can never  **be** themselves again. They detach completely, from their sense of who they are, and who others are to them. Their breath turns to steam in the warm air; their blood, to pitch; the love they hold for others, first to hate, then to the far worse indifference, and then…

…I don’t need to elaborate. And, truth be told, listeners, you probably know all of this already, having been through it yourselves. I suppose I’m only confirming the symptoms, and their usual fleeting nature, for my own peace of mind.

It’s Carlos, you see. Dear sweet Carlos, perfect on the outside and just as wonderful on the inside, whether he sees it or not.  
We were arranging for us to have dinner at his place for our fourth date when Dissociation hit. He was infected within minutes, and I had to hang up before it seeped into me too. While the two of us should technically feel honored – after all, it means he is now a true citizen of our fair burg – it’s only natural to worry if someone as previously unexposed as him can survive it as well as we can.

And, Night Vale, I fear he has not.

That is a lie. I  _know_  he has not. This is not Carlos, listeners. I don’t know what he is. He looks as he does, and sounds as he does, and his heart thrums in his so-soft chest as his does, but this is not the man that I fell so in love with.  **It’s not him!** I know it! Last night he sliced his hand open cooking and he  _bled black_.

⁂

Which leads us nicely to this joint Public Service Announcement.

The Greater Night Vale Medical Community, in conjunction with the Night Vale Psychological Association, has released a statement warning against single-symptom self-diagnosis. Far too often recently, people have been taking one cough-up of bone marrow to mean they have something degenerative and highly dangerous to treat, when it is quite simply a natural side effect of the regular purging your body undergoes upon thinking about certain unknowable topics. Such errors in disorder detection are liable to be… irreversible, should things go wrong for you. And they don’t particularly make the doctors, nurses, and leeches look good either, says the statement.

The NVPA and GNVMC therefore advise that you wait for at least three symptoms to manifest before you attempt to label yourself as one thing or another. To use the example they used:

Feeling the palms of your hands twitch every so often,  _on its own_ , is a sign that you’ll come into a windfall. Or into a room displaying every mistake you’ve ever made in a projected slideshow. One of the two.  
The inability to feel love for anyone or anything,  _taken by itself_ , is merely the remnants of Dissociation lingering in your system, as mentioned just minutes ago. The report says you should probably see a professional if it’s persisting… it may have come too late for that.  
But should you experience the two  _together_  – combined with a strange burning sensation behind your eyes, and suddenly talking. In. Staccato. Like. This. - Well, faithful listeners,  _that_  is the sign of something more serious that requires the rigorous process of self-diagnosis. And, should it be detected properly by the Medical Community, quarantine in the aforementioned room of mistakes. Better you be in there than spreading the influence of your malignant sociopathy.

“We can’t go around accidentally draining a few lives based on a single sign,” the report continues, “and risk letting people with genuinely dangerous issues roam free. One of our own, having been dismissed with mere conjunctivitis, escaped to Seattle with all of the above-mentioned symptoms, and look what came from that. …On second thoughts,  **don’t** look. Look away. Look far away from that hot mess. Stay right here where we can catch you.”

⁂

With Mayor Pamela Winchell continuing to announce her intentions to step down, the rumor mill has been abuzz with potential political candidates for when the election proceedings sneak up on us. Obviously, The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home kicked her political campaign off a month after the initial proclamation; and current fugitive, blog-owner, and five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels has officially decided to join in the proceedings by popular demand. But, well… a two-person election would be pretty uneventful, wouldn’t it, Night Vale?

I actually received an email shortly after I started tonight’s show suggesting that people try to persuade Leann Hart, current editor of the Night Vale Daily Journal, to run for this prestigious position. After all, much like myself, she is privy to the entire information network this town has to offer, and has experience enough with sending out paparazzi to know how to disperse of them. It also mentioned that, come election time, McDaniels will probably have been injured by hatchets anyway, leaving room for her to edge in. The email had no name attached to it, instead carrying the automatic signature of the Daily Journal itself.

A few of the other popular names in the flurry of conversation have included: Teddy Williams, owner of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex; Lt. Regis of the Local National Guard Station and KFC Combo Store; Cactus Julie, with her son Champ as future Chief Administrative Officer… and, most worryingly, an idea is persisting that we could be getting a surprise usurper candidate from our bitter rivals, Desert Bluffs. Frankly, listeners, I will run for Mayor myself before I allow this to happen. Not just because Desert Bluffs is a seething cesspool of mediocrity, denial and ill will; but because it would quite simply be unfair on everyone. Would they accept one of  _us_ trying to break into _their_ government, for good or ill or rescue operations?

Stay out of our politics, Desert Bluffs.  **Stay out of our city.**

⁂

An update on the Dissociation situation, and on its aftermath’s stone-cold clasp. Unfortunately, poor Carlos is not the only one to still be infected two days after the fact. His team of back-up scientists both old and new, a handful of high school seniors, and invisible clock tower watchman Horace Leavitt, amongst others, are all suffering the same lingering symptoms as him. Tar blood, not fully being there, you name it. We’ve even noticed that Simone Rigadeau’s latest missive from her recycling closet in the Earth Sciences building sounds “far less  _her_  than usual” – which begs the question as to how often she has caught Dissociation in the past, and what a transient can really Dissociate  **from**.

Concerned and frightened citizens have been shouting demands for answers, ways of curing their peers, and tips on how to avoid this happening again into plastic bottles, and throwing them in the general direction of the City Council. The Sheriff and his Secret Police have also been contacted in the usual way and given the same requests. But upon questioning, the Council merely clambered up from the pile of bottles surrounding them, narrowed their eyes at the masses, and rose their collective spine in disgust. The Secret Police, meanwhile, haven’t responded at all. They’re currently occupied trying to work out whether a case of public indecency at the Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area occurred in or out of Night Vale jurisdiction, given that the place in question  _has still never existed_.

Until we get any concrete way of restoring those who need it, I ask all of you out there, those of you who are capable of being yourselves, to do just that. Know your name, your relationships, your passions, your dreams. Keep your self close and the selves of others closer.  
And for those of you who can not? Please hang on. Please think back. Please remember who you were. Remember who you are. For all of our sakes.

⁂

Something odd has happened regarding Khoshekh, the station cat, and his litter of kittens.

Oh, don’t worry! All of them are okay! The little ones are growing up nicely, as a matter of fact, and have begun the attempts at climbing things and the meowing haunting arias that show they’ve gone beyond the four-month-old mark. Those hisses and beeps and growls reverberating around the studio at night? Melts this dog-lover’s heart every time.

Anyway. In a previous broadcast, I insinuated that the kittens had all gone to good and loving homes. But it seems as though these owners have been… revoked. A certain man in a tan jacket swanned into the place the other day, rested a note against the men’s bathroom door, and slipped out again, too quickly for our feeble minds to distinguish any part of him beyond his coat and deer-skin suitcase. The note, pieced together through letter-shaped fridge magnets glued onto cardboard, reads that he has taken full custody of all of the kittens. He will be responsible for their care from here on out, and promises that, direct quote, “there will be nO disturbance when I cOme in tO feed them. At least, nOne that YOu knOw abOut.”  
(I presume that by this point he’d run out of the letter O, having taped on a handful of inexpensive mood rings instead.)

Well, ladies and gentlemen and others, I didn’t take The Man in the Tan Jacket to be a cat person; but the mere presence of Khoshekh has proven enough to bend the staunchest of principles. And when I read this letter to him aloud, his emotional aura only flickered slightly, so I think he and his litter will be comfortable with the new arrangement. Especially Ukusit, who has taken to meowing especially loudly just before his arrival.

Our little community radio station really is getting popular, isn’t it?

⁂

And now, traffic.

…Silver car. Blue car. Black car. Black.  
… Silver again.  
… Red, blue, red, yellow, green with orange racing stripes.  
… Tan. We all know who  _that_ belongs to.  
… Three wheeler alert. Red, ruby red, stained.  _Seven_  wheeler alert.  
… Black Renault Scenic, stolen from someone still alive. White Ford Probe, stolen from someone long since deceased.  
… Jade green, blue, blue, helicopter, transparent, that peculiar shade of green that you want to call puke-green but you refrain from saying so since the owner is standing right there, you know.  
… Yellow with spiked wheels. Pink with inverted wheels. Black with tendrils instead of wheels, crawling along the asphalt at infuriating speeds, stopping only to suck out the color from the cars beside it.  
… Red. Red. Pulsing red.

…

Punch buggy green!

This has been traffic.

⁂

This is a turn up for the books! We’ve been getting reports that medical kits are being distributed that could help our afflicted where no one else can! Over the past few minutes, Dissociation Isolation and Restoration Kits have been materializing, stuffed inside the letterboxes, mailboxes, and ticking-wooden-crates-out-in-the-sand-wastes of all our residents. No one knows who precisely is delivering them, but we can’t go looking gift horses in the—

Excuse me.  
…  
Sorry, Intern Jaime was just passing one of these kits to me; she found it in my pigeonhole. She didn’t see who put it there either, but she’s going out to look for them and thank them on all of our behalves.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here… It’s a sturdy kit. White all over, barring the red cross on top, and the letters DIRK stamped on the handle. … Inside, there are two compartments – some scanning devices and a few empty syringes in the left side, and a pouch of some translucent blue liquid in the right. No, not liquid – colloid. It sits in there like melted glass. There’s also some instructions taped to the lid, eerily white text on paper as dark as tar. They read – hang on –

**“Use what lies to the west to locate the error, to circle it, trap it, extract it from their second skin. Use what lies to the east to connect to the stranger, to light the irises of their eyes with an ill-conceived hope. Do not look down prematurely, lest your blood become the shade you see. Do so only if their truths and lies slip through the cracks.”**

It’s signed simply with the letter E. But if I know anything through experience (and I like to think I do), then it can only stand for one thing. Listeners, these kits were created and hand-delivered, or delivered with whatever appendages they would have if they were real, by one of the  _angels_.  
…Oh dear. I hope Jaime doesn’t get caught trying to confirm it… That would not be pleasant.

I don’t know about you folks, but if Carlos were himself right now, he wouldn’t want any of us to dither on this, regardless of the source. I’m going to call him over during the break to try and get him back as best as I can. And I highly suggest that you do the same, before any more people are lost to this city forever.

In the meantime, let all of us go, whether we are truly ourselves or not, to the weather.

 

[ ♪♪♪ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3E9Wjbq44E)

 

Okay. I summoned a certain beautiful scientist over here, as promised, and did what I had to do with the kit. He’s actually just outside the recording booth right now~! He’s not in the proper state of mind to be interviewed or anything like that, otherwise I’d—

…  
 _Carlos, sweetheart, it’s fine. There’s no pressure. You can talk to them when you feel ready._

To the point: I ushered him in, sat him down, and opened the Isolation side of the kit. I looked him over with the scanning devices, which he said weren’t entirely unlike what he’s got kicking around the lab. Maybe technology augmentation will be the next thing on his agenda?

But here is the confusing thing, listeners. While the vast majority of you have thankfully managed to restore your own loved ones to their proper selves – yes, even Simone Rigadeau, in a fashion – in the case of Carlos, there was…

This is hard to describe, so bear with me. There was nothing to restore.

A lot of the physical symptoms are adding up. When he breathes out, it still comes out in steam as though the air is cold. He still bleeds black when he picks at the scar on his hand, which he should  _stop doing_  if he doesn’t want it to get  _infected_  and end up even worse off. But he is not Dissociated. He hasn’t been Dissociated since it went into him on Tuesday night. In fact, as far as the detectors can pick up, it only remained in him for about five minutes before turning tail and running out again. There is nothing technically wrong with him.

At any other time, for any other person, I would be more fearful about this. I would be speculating about how it means they were never who they said they were, that they were supposed to be shunned from the very start. But this is Carlos, unique from the word go even before he stepped in here. It stands to reason he’d be special in this regard.

Besides… well…  
…he said he loves me too.

To me, this proves that it is him far better than the scientific or supernatural ever could.

 

 

You are not only one being, listener. You are thousands. You are the people who have affected you, touched you, in one way or another, over the vast expanse of time that you have been alive. You are your parents, if you have any; you are your children, if they have chosen you; you are the friends that you have gained and had to leave behind; you are the people who you have greeted with kisses and sent off with smiles. There  **is**  a part of you that, no matter how they try, they can never touch. Your essence. But even being close to it is privilege enough for those that you truly love. Remember this.

Remember, too, that you are just as much a part of them, that you are equally as close to someone else’s core.

Tune in next for the sound of creaking wood and shadows, warning you that something heavy will fall on you - even if you don’t know what, where, or precisely when.

Good night, my listeners… my gorgeous, genuine Carlos… Goodnight.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Commonplace Books. The authors and producer I have attempted to emulate for this story are Joseph Fink and Jeffery Cranor. The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin, and I mean no disrespect to him. This episode's weather was "Stereo Hearts" by Gym Class Heroes and Adam Levine. Find out more at gymclassheroes.com. Check out commonplacebooks.com for the actual website of the show, and donate if possible and/or wanted.
> 
> Today's proverb: You don't owe _no one_ anything. You don't have to take anything from _no one_. But if you want to see your loved ones again, it might be better for both you and _no one_ to cooperate, don't you think?


End file.
